


weight of living

by ohmygodwhy



Series: first rule of earth kingdom fight club... [9]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Identity Issues, Relationship Study, Sparring, zuko: [commits a crime w someone] is this friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28351401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: “Okay then,” Jet leans against the counter, palm against the wood, “What would you recommend?”Zuko scowls, but tells him that today's special is Jasmine Tea, With Lemon—because Pao had told him repeatedly to “make sure you remember to mention the lemon."Jet orders the jasmine tea, with lemon.(or: zuko meets jet, gets a job in retail, and tries to adjust to life in ba sing se)
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Jet & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: first rule of earth kingdom fight club... [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1280843
Comments: 35
Kudos: 524





	weight of living

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a while huh! as usual my annual atla rewatch has given me a burst of atla inspiration and i realized ive barely touched on the ba sing se era in this au 😳 hello jet nice narrative parallels and wasted potential youve got there........

It’s after the North Pole, after the long stretch of almost-starvation in the ocean and then the desert and after Uncle gets shot full of lightning, that he meets Jet on the ferry to their Brand New Life. It’s after the tournaments, too, and after the safe house and so maybe that’s why Zuko accepts the guy’s offer to go commit some crime together and get a good meal out of it so quickly. He barely has to think about it. He says I’m in, and carefully doesn’t look at his uncle while he says it.

To be real honest, Jet kind of freaks him out. Maybe that’s not the right word—makes him uncomfortable, maybe, unsettles him a little. He’s not really sure why. It’s not the same kind of discomfort the regular back in Garsai made him feel, or the way the kindness of the citizens at the safe house unsettled him; it’s something different. Something in him a little too familiar for his taste.

Jet and his two friends eat like they’re having their last meal and always have a weapon on them and sleep with their backs to each other instead of strangers. Jet talks about a new life and new beginnings and second chances with the same weight that Uncle does, like they both carry things they are not proud of and would rather leave behind.

He knows what Uncle carries—they’re heading to the city he almost conquered, after all—but he does not know what this Earth Kingdom stranger with his mismatched armor and a deep seated anger in his eyes does. He doesn’t really think he wants to know. 

The point is, Jet kind of freaks him out. He stares at Zuko hard when he stacks up bowls of food with his stolen swords, when he asks why they’re headed to the city, when Uncle answers. He's not really sure how to act around him; he hasn’t spent time around anyone his own age since he was thirteen. But he decides to steal from the captain with him two seconds into meeting him, because he knows what it means to be hungry now and he sees that reflected in everyone here and he’s tired of it, and tired of being tired and tired of doing nothing about it. 

Afterwards, when the meal has been eaten and Uncle is chatting away with a nice looking woman and her son, Zuko wanders off. Finds a miraculously empty corner of the deck and swings his legs over the side of the ferry to sit on the railing. He’s not super worried about falling; it’s a little boat, and the water is calm. 

Jet, to his dismay, also wanders over.

“Careful you don’t fall,” he says, and Zuko very much does not startle. 

He doesn’t turn to look back at him. “I won’t,” he says, and feels Jet jump up next to him, a foot or two of railing between them. 

They sit like that in silence for a few minutes, Zuko hyper aware of the stranger sitting next to him, of how his hook swords are slotted into his belt, opposite of the side Zuko is on. He would have time to back up before Jet could reach for them, no matter how fast the guy’s reflexes might be. 

“So,” Jet breaks the silence, “Why’re you headed to Ba Sing Se?”

Zuko frowns. “We just talked about this.”

“Your—grandpa?—talked about it. You didn’t.”

“Uncle,” Zuko corrects on instinct, “And so what?”

“So, your answer might be different.”

“Why would you care?”

“Don’t know,” Jet says, and it only sounds like half a lie. “Guess I’m just curious.”

This is much worse than the Garsai Regular or even Song, because both of them had hovered on the outside of the range of personal questions. Nobody has pried like this; nobody’s dared to, or maybe been rude enough to. Jet doesn’t seem to care about being rude, or care about personal space or the fact that not everyone is so down to spill their life story and aspirations to a guy they met a few hours ago, even if they jumped straight into committing crime. Jet stares at him and he feels exposed. 

“Well don’t be,” he answers. 

Jet hums a little, glances sidelong at him, but doesn’t ask again. 

The moon looks pretty tonight, a bright crescent in the sky. Zuko very much does not think about the North Pole; instead, he breathes in the cool ocean air and tries to think about nothing at all.

Jet seeks him out again a few days later. 

This time he wants help “liberating” some booze from the wine cellar that supposedly exists below deck. Zuko does not mention that he’s pretty sure a ferry this small doesn’t have room for a fucking wine cellar, and just says sure, because he’s getting restless stuck on something this small with this many people packed together. 

He’s right; there isn’t a wine cellar. There is, however, a box in the far back of the cargo bay that, when they crack it open, is in fact full of wine. 

“Fuck yeah,” Jet whispers into the near-dark, and Zuko pushes down the near-smile that he definitely does not feel on his face. 

They end up in a supply closet full of bedrolls somewhere above deck, one of the few empty places they’ve found. The ship is stock full of refugees; it’s no surprise there isn’t much food to go around. 

Zuko hasn’t gotten tipsy since that time his Not Certified Mechanic peer pressured him into playing his "special" version of poker—special in the fact that every time you lost a round you had to take a drink. Zuko is much better at Ships and Robbers than he is at poker, so he’d actually ended up a lot more than tipsy. He’s honestly shocked Uncle hadn’t smelled it on him the next day and tossed him overboard in disappointment. 

He doesn’t drink much at first; he’s running on a near-empty stomach, and he doesn’t want to let his guard down too much, no matter how friendly Jet seems with him. He also does not ask why Jet’s friends don’t join them. 

Instead, he complains about how he wishes it was something other than wine, ‘cause it’s dry and bitter and—he does not say this part out loud—reminds him of the time his cousin let him have a sip of his wine at dinner once, just to get him to stop asking about it, and he had almost spit it all over the table.

Jet laughs, even though Zuko isn’t trying to be funny, and says, “Whiskey’s way better, right?” 

He almost says something about how saké is top of his list, but catches himself at the last moment; they don’t make saké much outside of the Fire Nation and their colonies. He isn’t tipsy enough to out he and his uncle on day three of their Brand New Life. He doesn’t think Jet would take it well. 

“Rum’s not bad, either,” he agrees, and is definitely not trying to sound casual about it; he is not trying to impress this earth kingdom boy he just met. “They flavor it sometimes.” 

“Never had rum,” Jet says, “We used to take what we could find from Fire Nation merchants ‘n shit, but I don’t think they ever had any.”

“Guess it’s more popular with sailors.”

Jet’s eyes lock on him immediately, eyebrows raising, “You a _sailor?”_

“No,” he says, hopefully not too quickly, “I just, uh. Was on a ship for a while. After we… left home.”

Jet seems to consider this, throwing back another swing of wine. “This is my first time on a ship.” Zuko makes a vaguely interested noise when Jet pauses for a reaction. “Mostly lived in a forest up ‘til now.”

Zuko’s never really been in a forest for any extended period of time beyond his various Avatar-hunting treks. He’s certainly never lived in one. He takes the bottle from Jet when he offers and takes a long drink, even though it still tastes like shit. 

“Why’d you leave?” 

Jet shrugs. “Fire Nation burned it down.” 

Zuko goes very still. The supply closet is suddenly very small.

“Oh,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to say. “I’m sorry.”

Jet snorts, shooting him a look caught somewhere between bemused and—something else. “It’s not like you did it. But thanks.”

Zuko hums, taking another drink so that he doesn’t have to say you’re welcome. The Fire Nation burned Jet’s forest down, and now he is sitting here with the prince of the nation who burned his forest down. Zuko’s stomach twists with something he doesn’t want to acknowledge. 

“So, Li. What’re you running from?” Jet asks, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. 

Zuko’s head spins just a bit, whiplash from the subject change and the wine sitting bitter in his stomach. “Who says I’m running?”

Jet gives a lopsided smirk, “You’re goin’ to Ba Sing Se. Everyone on this ship's running from something, or else they wouldn’t be here.”

“What’re _you_ running from, then?” he redirects weakly. 

Jet tilts his head back; it hits the wall behind him with a quiet thunk. “Like I said—the Fire Nation. A lot of things, but. Mostly the Fire Nation.” 

It sounds a little like a lie; Jet, like Azula, seems to be a pretty smooth liar. Or maybe that’s just his paranoia—growing up with Azula and her very good lying does that to a person. 

Jet seems to shake himself, frowning. “Maybe from myself, a little,” he admits, voice much softer than it was; almost whispered, like this is a secret, “From what I did.”

 _What did you do?_ Zuko almost wants to ask. But he does not want to know what could make a boy like this whisper like that, a bottle in his hand, and so he does not ask.

He gestures for the bottle back instead, which Jet hands over easily.

“That why you’re drinking with me instead of your friends?” he asks, the wine making him looser around the edges.

Jet snorts a laugh, “Maybe. They were there for all of it. I’m lucky to still have them, y’know? Lucky they’re still here, after everything.” 

Zuko thinks about his Uncle, who is still here even though all staying with Zuko ever did was get him labeled a traitor and then shot full of lightning and almost dead, and understands. 

“Yeah,” he says, and takes another quick sip, “I get that.” 

Jet steals the bottle back; it’s almost empty.

“So, what are you running from?” Jet asks again. 

He thinks about his mother and his father’s unforgiving hands and the twelve year old Avatar and his sister who will drag him home in chains if she finds him. 

“A lot of things, I guess,” he finally says, echoing Jet’s words. “I wish I wasn’t.”

“Running?”

“Yeah. I wish I didn’t have to. I don’t _want_ to go to Ba Sing Se. But I can’t—I can’t go home,” Zuko, to his horror, feels an awful heat behind his eyes and forces it down; he won’t cry in front of a stranger, “I can’t ever go home.”

If Jet notices his voice break he doesn’t mention it, just like he does not stare at his scar, and it makes something in Zuko’s chest hurt. Everyone, especially the strangers who have shown him kindness, stare at his scar. 

“None of us can,” Jet says, voice firm but not unkind, “and that fucking sucks. But it’s like your Uncle said, right? We get to make a new one.”

 _I don’t want to make a new one,_ he thinks, _I don’t want a new life or a new home._ He wants _his_ home, and he wants it the way it used to be, but it will never be the way it used to be because so much of it has turned out to be a lie. He’ll never be able to go back to that, and yet he still doesn’t want to let it go. Spirits, he misses his mom. 

“Sure,” is what he says. “A new one.”

Jet does not call him on his bullshit, and lets him have the last bit of the wine that Zuko doesn’t even really want. He calls him by a name that is not his own, and Zuko ignores how little he minds it. 

When they finally make it to the city, Jet asks him to join his gang. He asks Li to join his gang. Zuko is surprised how much he almost wants to say yes—almost. Almost, because Zuko is not Li, and Jet and his friends are here because Zuko’s people burned down their forest. 

Jet frowns at his refusal, but lets it go.

“I’ll see you later, I guess,” he says, and Zuko hates the way he sounds like he means it.

“Maybe,” Zuko answers. He hopes he won’t. 

The impenetrable city of Ba Sing Se isn’t really what Zuko expected. Though to be honest, he’s not really sure what he expected. He knew the walls had to be pretty fucking big, considering how long it took Uncle to almost break through them, but that’s about it. He didn’t realize how vast it would be; how many people it would hold. 

It stretches out in front of him, seemingly endless, and it reminds him a little bit of the endless stretch of Earth Kingdom desert, even though it’s full to bursting with people where the desert was unbelievably empty. Both of them so big, and him so small in the face of it. Insignificant. New names and a new city and a new life; Zuko already feels like he is suffocating. 

Uncle finds them a place to live faster than Zuko would’ve expected. He assumes the whole secret society Uncle is apparently a part of might’ve helped set it up for them. He buys a vase full of flowers for their Brand New Home. It’s a small apartment, two rooms and a kitchen, but it’s nicer than anything Zuko’s had for a long while. 

Uncle puts the vase on a little table next to the door and says, “There. Looks better already.”

Zuko looks at the vase and the flowers on the little table by the door, the only bit of color in their Brand New Home—new home and new names and a brand new life—and feels colder and smaller than he has since he got caught in that stupid blizzard at the North Pole.

Vaguely, he wonders if he’ll even be able to firebend at all while they’re here. 

“Sure,” he says, because he knows his uncle is waiting for him to say something, and he’s been trying to be less generally shitty to his uncle ever since he almost died. “I guess it does.” 

Jet shows up at the tea shop a few weeks in. Because Uncle got them jobs at a fucking tea shop, because of course he did, even though Zuko is notoriously awful at making tea—so much so that he’s put on cashier-slash-waiter duty his second shift and stays there. 

Like that’s any better. Their second week of employment, Pao sends him to the back to wash dishes for the rest of the day, just because he loses his temper with a customer who somehow couldn’t get it through his head that this is a tea shop and nothing else and so no, they don’t have any dinner options besides pastries and no, they don’t serve dumplings here and apparently _were you dropped on your head as a child or something_ is not an “appropriate” thing to say to a stupid customer. 

Point is, there are a lot of kind people in the earth kingdom, but most of them are, at the end of the day, just people. Which means they’re generally fucking annoying, and many lack manners or basic comprehension skills. 

Jet turns out to be one of the former. 

“I told you I’m not interested in joining your gang,” Zuko says when the guy strolls in, hook swords clinking together where they hang on his belt. “How’d you even find us?” 

“I’m just here for some tea,” Jet says, eyebrows raised—amused, this time, gaze darting down to the uniform Pao insists on—and does not answer the question. “Nice apron.”

“Fuck off,” Zuko says instinctually.

“I don’t think you can talk to customers that way.”

Zuko genuinely can’t tell if he’s making fun of him or not. It kinda pisses him off.

“I can if the customers don’t order anything.”

Jet gives him that lopsided grin he seems to wear when he thinks something is funny; at least, that’s what Zuko has seen so far. He seems to find Zuko (seems to find _Li_ ) generally funny outside of crime-committing situations. Zuko thinks this is very weird. 

“Okay then,” Jet leans against the counter, palm against the wood, “What would you recommend?”

Zuko scowls, but tells him that today's special is Jasmine Tea, With Lemon—because Pao had told him repeatedly to “make sure you remember to mention the lemon."

Jet orders the jasmine tea, with lemon. And then sits at the table closest to the counter and drinks the whole thing, occasionally trying to start up a conversation. Zuko shuts all of them down by reminding him that he’s at work, and kind of doesn’t want to lose his job by slacking off or something, thank you very much.

That makes Jet snort into his cup every time, which makes Zuko feel an odd spike of defensiveness, which makes him snap at whatever customer he’s taking the order of, which makes Pao shoot him a Look from wherever he is in the shop. Zuko is pretty sure he’s the old man’s least favorite employee, but he also doesn’t care enough to think about it too long. 

“Spirits, are you done yet?” Zuko finally asks. 

Jet raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says plainly, “You’re making my boss hate me more than he already does.” 

Jet’s amused little smirk seems to fade into something genuinely guilty, eyes darting to said boss across the shop. He stands up, chair sliding across the floor, and shoves his hand into his pocket on his walk to the register. 

“Here,” he says, opening his fist. Zuko takes the money, counts quickly. He’s a few cents short, but Zuko isn’t gonna get on his ass about it. He knows he and his uncle are lucky to have gotten a job so quickly. 

He looks up to Jet staring at him hard, the way he did back on the ferry. He hopes his unease doesn’t show on his face. 

“Look,” Jet says, “I get that you don’t wanna be a Freedom Fighter—and that’s cool, I get it. But you don’t gotta be a stranger.”

Zuko blinks at him, at a loss. Jet seems to take his silence as a confirmation of—something. He tilts his head and says, “Me ‘n the gang are staying at a place a few blocks down from here, if you ever wanna swing by. It’s next to this big ass butcher shop, can’t miss it. See you around, Li.” 

And with that, Jet throws a wave over his shoulder and strolls back out the way he came. Zuko stands there for a moment, the coins heavy in his hand, and wonders why he always seems to attract attention from odd strangers that he does not want. 

Spirits, he misses _not_ being here. 

He and Uncle stop at a few shops on their way home from work one day, because Uncle wants to get new flowers to replace the nearly dead ones wilting in their single vase back at the apartment. 

He’s very picky about his flowers, apparently, because he doesn’t find any he likes enough to buy until they stop at their third flower shop. He finally says “oh, these will do nicely,” instead of the “very lovely, but not quite,” Zuko’s been hearing for the last half hour.

While Uncle gently haggles with the shop owner to try and bring the price down, Zuko lets his eyes wander. The lower ring of Ba Sing Se is packed—he doubts the two other rings house nearly as many people, if this is where most of the refugees are. He’s spent time in the Caldera during holidays or solstice parades, but the streets were never as busy as this city’s are on an average day. This also means that everybody’s selling something. 

His eyes catch on a booth a few shops down. There’s a woman standing behind the small table, selling—quilts? Blankets? Fabric? Something knitted and colorful beyond the usual light and dark greens. 

“You have a good eye, nephew,” his uncle startles him out of his thoughts. 

Zuko turns away from the booth, oddly embarrassed to be caught staring. 

“Are you done?” He asks, glancing down at the bouquet in uncle’s hand.

Uncle nods, smiling triumphantly. “The florist was a very reasonable man.” Zuko nods, and turns to leave. His uncle stops him with a careful hand on his elbow. “Would you like to look at that vendor?”

Zuko shakes his head quickly, “Not really.”

Uncle doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

Zuko wilts under his uncle’s knowing gaze, and shrugs. He lets Uncle lead the way. 

They look much nicer up close. There’s a blanket draped over the front of the table with the Earth Kingdom symbol stitched into it, and one with the water tribe waves in blue folded next to it. There aren’t any fire nation symbols, but he didn’t expect any. 

The one that catches his eye the most is folded and half draped over one of the sides of the table. It's a dark, dark red, with bright gold thread stitched into the outlines of long, curving dragons, next to orange flower petals and light green leaves. It reminds him, suddenly and vividly, of sitting next to his mother in the little theater on Ember Island and watching _Love Amongst The Dragons_ be butchered live on stage. Of sitting on the beach and listening to Uncle tell stories about the days when dragons were still… around. 

“We’ll take the one with the lovely dragon pattern, please.” 

Zuko looks up, alarmed. “Uncle, I don’t actually need it.” 

“Z—nephew,” he catches himself; Zuko feels vindicated in knowing that he isn’t the only one who’s having trouble using their new names consistently, “we have a little extra coin. If you want to get something for yourself, you can; it’s only fair,” he holds up his purple bouquet. 

Zuko supposes he can’t argue with that. He still tries to, but Uncle won’t have it. He buys the small blanket, folds it up and hands it to Zuko, who holds it carefully.

When they get back to the apartment, Zuko puts it on the bedroll on his side of the room that he and Uncle sleep in, and looks at it. It sits there, a splash of color against the browns and greens of the bedroom. 

He hears uncle hum from the other room as he bustles around, replacing the old flowers with the new ones. Uncle’s vase and his flowers, and now this, things they bought solely to make their Brand New Home a little nicer. 

I don’t want to make a life here, Zuko had said. 

Hanging things up in his quarters back on his ship hadn’t meant he was surrendering to life as a washed up sailor, he reminds himself. He hadn’t accepted his exile as permanent just because he wanted to make the shitty little ship seem a little more livable. 

He isn’t making a life here. He isn’t giving up. He’s just… adjusting, like he’s always done. He’s surviving, like he’s always done.

Zuko decides to go see if Uncle needs help with anything, just so he doesn’t have to think about how weird he feels about buying a fucking blanket, and slides the bedroom door shut behind him. 

Jet shows up for the second time on Lu Ten’s birthday. 

Uncle is out for the day, obviously. The few birthdays that passed on their shitty little warship, Uncle would request that they dock somewhere with a market, and he would go out for the day. Zuko would not go with him, and nobody would mention the date. 

This year is much of the same. He’s not sure what his Uncle does when he goes out; he mostly tries not to think about it, beyond hoping that being in the city where It Happened doesn’t make things too much harder for him. 

He kind of wants to punch Jet for having the gall to ask about it—has to remind himself that it’s not his fault, ‘cause he obviously doesn’t know. 

Zuko doesn’t much want to talk about it, though, so when Jet asks why Uncle is out for the day, he says, “It’s his son’s birthday today. His son is dead.” 

Jet is quiet for a moment, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and sounds like he really means it. 

“Whatever,” Zuko says, and wipes down a plate.

Jet seems to take this as an offer to continue the conversation. “My parents died when I was eight. I know it’s hard, losing family.”

What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? Is he supposed to apologize, too? He doesn’t want to know these things; he doesn’t want to hold anyone else’s pain in his hands, and he definitely doesn’t want to hold Jet’s, because he still won’t know how to put it down.

A customer saves him from having to come up with something to say. He takes the man’s order, yells it back to Pao, and prays that this guy doesn’t complain about how much worse the tea is than usual today. He’s already gotten three comments about it, which has been making Pao all bitchy, which makes the day go by even slower than. 

“Did he die in the war?” Jet asks softly, trying again.

Zuko scowls down at the wood of the counter. “Of course he died in the war; everyone dies in the war.” 

It should be the end of the conversation, but Jet keeps pushing. “What was he like?” 

“I don’t want to talk about this with you,” Zuko snaps, pushing his irritation down. “You didn’t know him; it’s not your business.” 

Jet looks at him for a long moment, that unsettling way he always does, and, finally, seems to take the fucking hint.

“What’s today’s special?” he asks, “Is it ginseng again?”

Zuko exhales, and rolls his eyes. “Get a job Jet,” he says. “And yes, it's ginseng again."

Zuko is still up when Uncle finally comes home on the night of Lu Ten’s birthday. He seems tired, a bag that Zuko knows carries a portrait of his cousin slung over his shoulder.

He tried to keep the kettle hot on the stove, in case Uncle wanted tea when he got back. He smiles when Zuko tells him this, grateful and sad, older than he’s seemed in a long time. It’s been years now, since Lu Ten. Since mother. Zuko wonders what they would think of the two of them. New names and a new life, within the walls of the city that killed his cousin. 

“How was your day?” Zuko asks carefully, the closest he’s ever come to acknowledging his yearly outings.

Uncle is quiet for a moment, and Zuko is regretting saying anything. “It was quite eventful,” he finally answers, voice light.

He takes the newly brewed cup of tea that uncle hands him, cradling it in his hands to soak in the heat. “Eventful?”

Uncle nods, “I met many fine people. How did the shop hold up?”

“It was fine. Pao did run it himself before we got here.”

Uncle just hums graciously. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“The regulars missed you, though,” he feels the need to add.

It makes Uncle smile a little. “That’s very kind of them.” 

Zuko takes a sip of his tea. The silence sits over them like a blanket; not too heavy, but not light, either. He always feels out of place on days like this—his cousin’s birthday and the anniversary of his death—unsure of how to handle his uncle’s grief, no matter how hard uncle tries to hide it. He feels like he’s intruding. _I think of you as my own,_ Uncle had said back at the North Pole. The ghost of his cousin sits there with them, and he feels guilty for daring to try to replace him in any way. 

“I’m,” Zuko starts, and then stops. “I can clean up, if you wanna go to bed.” 

Uncle’s face softens; tired. “Thank you, Zuko. I think I’ll do that.”

Uncle hasn’t called him Zuko in weeks; he hates the way it shocks him, hearing his own name said out loud.

Uncle says his good nights, leaving his cup half empty on the table. Zuko sits there for a while longer, the ghost of his cousin sitting there with him. He hasn’t thought about him since this time last year; he doesn’t like admitting that he can’t remember his cousin’s face without looking at a portrait first. 

If he closes his eyes, it almost feels like Lu Ten really could be here, like he could open his eyes and see his cousin’s spirit sitting next to him. He did die here, after all, Zuko thinks, and then shakes off the fantasy, and rises to clear the table. 

The third time Jet shows up, he walks right up to the register and asks Zuko, with no greeting, if he wants to spar. 

“I’m literally working right now,” Zuko says.

“When do you get off?”

“When the shop closes.”

“Well then, when’s your break?”

Technically, they can take their break whenever—as long as it doesn’t “hinder the customers,” aka not when it’s busy. It isn’t busy right now, so Zuko tells Uncle that he’s taking his break. He follows Jet outside, to the alley back behind the shop—but only because he’s bored.

Jet turns to him expectantly; Zuko crosses his arms.

“So are you down?” Jet asks.

“To spar?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would I wanna fight with you in a back alley.”

Jet shrugs, casual and loose. “This place is fucking suffocating. Figure you’d wanna let loose a little. Blow off some steam.” 

Zuko’s a little uncomfortable with how well Jet has him pegged. 

“By beating your ass?”

Jet laughs, hands on his hips, “It’ll make you feel better. C’mon, I haven’t had a good fight in a while; Fire Nation soldiers are too damn easy to beat.” 

Zuko scowls, but doesn’t argue. 

There’s a restlessness in Jet that mirrors his own, twitchy fingers and twitchy eyes. Zuko’s been itching to firebend for weeks now, and every time the sun comes up it feels like it gets worse. He knows he can’t bend here, now, but maybe Jet has a point about blowing off steam—and he’s never had the chance to fight anyone like Jet before. 

“Fine,” he says. “Swords or no swords?”

If Jet is surprised he caved so quickly, he doesn’t show it. “Swords might be too loud. Don’t want the Dai Li on our asses.”

The mention of the freaky secret police everybody seems to talk around puts him on edge, and he agrees. 

“Okay,” he says, “Probably wouldn’t have time to go get mine anyways.” 

Jet fights dirty—of course he does—loose and wild and self-taught. They decided on a "no aiming for the face" rule, because Zuko doesn’t wanna scare off any customers with a broken nose or anything, but that just means Jet keeps aiming for the legs. He has a nasty kick. 

He’s earth kingdom through and through, though, and Zuko now has plenty of experience with that. He keeps his feet planted solid on the ground, and does not let Jet knock him off balance—he knows that’s all it would take for the boy to get the upper hand. He’s taller than Zuko, his limbs are longer, but he’s not wide like many of the earth benders in the tournaments were, like the soldiers in the villages he stopped in were. This means that’s he’s still fucking fast in the way they usually aren’t.

It’s surprisingly hard to _not_ firebend, darting away from Jet’s hard kicks and blocking punches. Zuko thinks about the way his old mechanic corrected his stance, taught him to punch like a colonial boy, and leans into it. 

He ducks under Jet’s right hook and gets a knee in his stomach; Jet brings his elbow down between Zuko’s shoulder blades, the asshole, and Zuko lets himself go down, catches himself with his hands and springs away to get his feet back under him. 

Fuck, but he’s gonna be all bruised up tomorrow. He shakes out his hands, breathes in deep, and dives back in. 

They go on like that for a while; Jet is a slippery little bastard, but so is Zuko. Finally, Zuko tries to copy Jet’s movements and manages to kick his legs out from under him—Jet goes down hard, but before he can get back up, Zuko digs his boot into the ground and kicks up as hard as he can; Jet curses and swipes at the dirt in his eyes. 

“Asshole,” he spits, but raises his free hand up in surrender. 

Zuko stops, panting hard. “I win, then.”

Jet scowls, blinking rapidly, “Barely—that was a dick move.”

“You were the one who wanted to fight and then only set one rule.”

Jet’s anger seems to fizzle out, and he sighs, slumping back against the wall of the alley. “Shit,” he breathes. 

Zuko sits down, too, a few feet between them, just in case Jet is faking his surrender. He breathes in deeply, holds it for a few seconds, exhales slowly. His heart is still racing, blood running hot, but a lot of the pent up need to move he’s been full of for the past few weeks is gone. 

He opens his eyes to find Jet looking at him, a smug look on his face. “Feels better, right?” 

Zuko doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet and holds a hand out to help Jet up.

“Let’s go again,” he says, even though his break is most definitely over by now and he should be getting back to work.

Jet grins up at him, and takes his hand. 

(Jet wins the second round, but only because Zuko is tired from being on shift since eight in the morning. Their third round ends in a draw, because Uncle finally wanders out to find him and tells him to please come back inside, with a concerned look on his face as he brushes some of the dirt off of Zuko’s shirt.) 

They stop at the market on their way back from the shop again a few days later; they need more groceries to make dinner, and the flowers in the vase on the table by the door need to be replaced again. They’ve been here long enough for two sets of flowers to live, wilt and die. 

They stop at the same shop they got their last bouquet from. The woman selling quilts isn’t there anymore; Zuko wonders if she’s changed location. The streets are still loud and bustling with life, but it’s not as overwhelming anymore. He’s gotten used to it—just like he got used to the way his ship’s engine busted up every winter and the way his legs hurt after riding an ostrich horse all day. It’s easy to let it wash over him, now; blend in, one refugee among hundreds. 

New names, new house, new life. Zuko hates how easy it’s become to live like this.

“Nephew,” his uncle says, “Would you like to help me choose this time?”

Zuko turns to look at the various flowers lined up behind the counter, and then over at his uncle’s expectant face. He doesn’t want to help choose the flowers, because all they’re gonna do is add life to their shitty little apartment and then die a few weeks later. 

Still. His eyes land on a bundle in the back, near one of the corners: bright yellow, dozens of delicate looking petals, standing out against the darker purples and reds around them. Uncle follows his gaze. 

“The chrysanthemums, please,” he says cheerfully to the florist, gesturing to the yellow flowers. 

“Good taste,” the florist compliments, just like he probably compliments everyone who buys something from him. “Flowers hold their own secret meanings, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” Uncle says, sounding suitably interested, “What do these lovely things have to say?”

The florist smiles, “Chrysanthemums supposedly symbolize optimism and long life,” he recites, carefully wrapping the flowers up, “And fidelity, but that doesn’t seem too relevant for you two.”

Uncle laughs jovially. “Not as of now,” he agrees as he hands over a few coins and takes the bouquet, “Optimism and long life aren’t too shabby, though. It seems you have a good instinct for flowers, nephew.”

Zuko very much does not preen a little under the compliment, as throwaway as it is. 

Optimism and long life, he thinks later, watching Uncle place their new flowers carefully in the vase on the little table by the door. 

Zuko does not want to build a life here. The yellow looks nice against the browns and greens of the room. He tries not to think of this as a defeat. 

The last time Jet shows up is a week after the two of them spent an hour beating each other up behind the shop. It is his last time, because Zuko doesn’t expect him to climb through the window in the back where he’s stuck doing the dishes because he snapped at another customer and demand to know if he’s a “filthy fucking firebender.” 

“What?” he finally manages, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

Jet stomps up to him, eyes bright and angry, getting right in his face. “I _saw_ him,” he spits, “I saw your uncle ‘lighting’ the stove.”

“What?” He asks again, more genuinely this time, mind racing along with his heart. 

“In the kitchen! Your stupid boss couldn’t get it to start, and your uncle—I saw him firebend.” 

“Pao doesn’t know how to do shit without him,” Zuko forces out, hoping his voice isn’t as shaky as his hands feel, “Uncle probably just turned the stove on.”

 _“I saw him,”_ Jet snarls, fisting a hand in the collar of Zuko’s apron; Zuko braces his hand on the counter, grasping instinctually for the hilt of one of the knives he just dried off. Jet’s eyes dart down and back up, narrowing further. 

“Back the fuck up,” Zuko warns. He wonders how fast he could make it to the door, what he could say to warn his uncle without confirming Jet’s suspicions. 

Jet does not back the fuck up. He drops his hand from Zuko’s apron, but does not drop his gaze. 

“Are you a firebender?” Jet asks again, voice surprisingly calm in comparison to the tension in the lines of his body.

Zuko starts to say—something, he isn’t sure, but Jet cuts him off. “I know your uncle is, but—it doesn’t always run in the family,” there’s an undercurrent of something desperate in his tone, “So I’ll ask you again, Li. Are you a fucking firebender.” 

Zuko, for a moment, is sure he could get away with lying, with admitting that uncle is a firebender and that he _isn’t_ and that they’re just trying to start a new life and please, please don’t tell anyone. He opens his mouth to lie, to say no, to say of course not, you crazy motherfucker, but nothing comes out. Jet stares at him, eyes hot with rage and a growing betrayal that he has no right to feel because Zuko doesn’t owe him shit and never asked him to trust him and never expected him to, and he cannot say a thing. 

The silence stretches. Jet’s face goes from burning anger to something hard and cold. Zuko’s pulse spikes again; he wonders if Jet might try and kill him right here, in the back kitchen of this dingy little tea shop in the middle of the lowest ring of Ba Sing Se. 

He knows that people hate the Fire Nation. He’s seen the anger, the fear and the mistrust in everyone he’s met. But he’s never seen this kind of boiling rage in one person, hotter than Zuko’s ever was even at his worst, their odd sort of camaraderie turned to a deep, deep resentment at even the possibility that Zuko might be what he is. Jet found out who he is, and he hates him for it. 

Jet’s hand moves to the hilt of his hook swords, and Zuko’s hand tightens around the hilt of the knife. They both startle at the sudden knock on the kitchen door. 

“Li!” Pao shouts from the other side, “The evening rush has started; go help your uncle. And don’t insult any more customers or I’m docking your pay.” 

A moment passes. Two.

“Li!”

“I’ll be out in a second,” Zuko says, clearing his dry throat. 

Pao huffs, and they listen to the sound of his footsteps as he walks away. 

Zuko, slowly, loosens his hold on the knife handle and sets it down. Jet tracks the movement closely. He exhales sharp, angry. Lifts his hand from his belt. 

“You better watch your fucking back,” he finally says, voice low, “Fire Nation scum.” 

A few moments later Jet is gone, leaving the way he came before Zuko can so much as take a breath.

Zuko stands there, alone, thinks about the hate in Jet’s eyes and pretends that his hands aren’t shaking. It takes him five minutes to remember that he’s supposed to be up front with his uncle.

He breathes deeply, squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten, and then goes to help his uncle with the evening rush.

The last time he sees Jet, he is being dragged away by faceless Dai Li agents, screaming about firebenders and protecting the city and how they _aren’t listening to him,_ and the sword Zuko took from a soldier back in the shop feels like lead in his hand. 

He never sees Jet again.

**Author's Note:**

> if i reused a few lines of dialogue from one of my old fics no i didnt. if bonding thru drinking has turned into a reccuring theme in this series.....blame quarantine. i dont think u understand how i close i was to having them full on smoke a joint together 
> 
> thank u for reading and drop a comment to celebrate 2020 um. being over. and come vibe w me on [t*mblr](http://gaycinema.tumblr.com/) if you would like <3


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